


Dog City

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, Jealousy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Matthew boy was falling apart.He was winded. Blistering from his feet and gasping for the air that his brother huffed from above him.And now the gap was too large. Widening with every waking minute and disillusioning Arthur’s children.And Matthewloved it.
Relationships: America/Canada (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	1. Bottomless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while high, idk

**I**

I had once pandered to the idea of protecting my brother from the woes of our childhood. He and I were tight; the lively type of boys whose minds went faster than our bodies could carry us. Arthur had called us dense because of it. “Excruciatingly incompetent,” would leave his mind at the sight of our boistering.

Those days had reminded me of Alfred. The younger version of the man he was now. He once held himself to a high standard: a standard above my own goals. And he measured his self worth by making sure mine was well below his own.

I found myself hating the sight, the idea that Arthur favoured one above the other, that the idiotic Alfred Jones could ever be more valuable to such a man more than I, the calloused and careful one of the two. Yet to my lack of surrounding, I found that he _did_.

That Alfred was the taller of us two.

And Arthur _liked it_.

That night I had showered longer than usual, a typical sort of hum echoing off the walls from the undignified wailing of my beaten and bruised pride.

Alfred was the better one.

He always was.

And at the moment, I thought ‘who could love Alfred more than I?’

The water had gone dry. It poured madly and made my hair frizzy. But I continued to feel light. I felt taller and bulkier than that so-called prodigious brother of mine.

And in those moments of sorrow, of soundless weeping and the discomfort that was my own failure, I felt the disconnect of my tightened heartstrings and screamed.

Bold. Brightly.

Blasphemously.


	2. Uncut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still high lmao

**II**

Arthur caved in the next morning. He was on edge. Unjust in his actions and held by the neck by the likes of Francis.

I had once frowned at his woe, at his grimace of pleasure. It was almost amusing now, to see, to watch.

To revel in deliciously at the distaste of Alfred’s cheap attempt to seduce him.

• • •

It was around three in the afternoon that the nonsense had started. Arthur was antsy; scooping out dripping wallops of cream to place into the clean container. His brother had called. Had laughed over the phone and added a sense of cautiousness to our already irritated father.

“The guy’s mad, Mattie,” Alfred whispered, lightly on the outer rim of my ear and lead a light laugh after the phrase.

I couldn’t agree more. Arthur was mad — downright bonkers — and the both of his children could hardly play along with the charade of calmness that they all seemed to bask in. The Lord knew that they fooled nobody but themselves; that their lives were in a deep pile of shit yet they refused to put down the shovel.

“Alfred, shh. He’ll hear you.”

I was brighter than my brother. Or so my father believed. That amount was obvious to the three of us.

Alfred was hot. Hot being what I liked to describe him as. He was skinny but held enough muscle to hold himself in a fight, an essential that Arthur’s fucking bullish brother seemed to lay his upturned eyes on. I had once found myself glaring at the very man when he came to visit us that evening.

“Matthew, buddy, w’as wrong? You got something stuck in y’er ass?”

Arthur relented, his arms crossed and mouth opened in his usual ashamed sway, “How— watch your damn mouth, you idiot. He’s only a child.”

A child would have laughed. Would have muttered and ignored the statement.

“I’m not a child, Arthur. I’m thirteen.” My honesty earned a dazed look. A sort of remorseful huff that Arthur usually reserved for Alfred.

“Yes, I apologize, Matthew. But thirteen is still a—ah, a child.”

He, in that moment, was what I liked to call an ass. He reeked of pity, of that awfully fake sort of adultish commentary.

And it was around then that I saw Alfred’s dull smile in the back of my mind.


	3. The Blackjack Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever heard the sound of a rubber ball breaking a window

**III**

**[** This chapter includes _Explicit Sexual Content_. You have been warned. **]**

The sight of his curved cock had me wondering if we had already grown up.

I held myself still in bed, laying restlessly against the feel of silky bedsheets, and beneath the high ceiling of God watching my every move.

Alfred moaned. The loud slap of his hand rubbing against his hardened penis was enough to keep me occupied for a few hours.

We had grown. Young adults that I liked to consider the two of us to be. He and I, I and him. My penis was large, a decent size and a good enough reason to grab Alfred and show him the adult side of myself.

But our father would hear. Would argue that the ripe age of fifteen was hardly a teenager, let alone a young adult. Yet I never let him get to me. Perhaps he would even enjoy the sounds of Alfred crying, of his gasping and whining as I fucked him below the eyes of God and his angels.

But for now I stood still, content with listening to his pitiful humping into his hand in a desperate attempt to come. He was pathetic, a disembodied version of the man he had yet to grow into and flourish, hand-in-hand with me and Arthur.

“Alfred,” I asked.

It had dawned on me that he probably couldn’t get off without an incentive. His reasoning for his fucking disgusting display of being unable to get himself off like any normal boy.

But here he stopped, panting. Breathless. And answered my call.

“W... What?” His voice heaved in the ugliest sort of pubescent way it could have. I let out a laugh, an accidental snicker at his painful adoration of the human body, and replied.

“Need some help?”

His gasping stopped a mere second. A clear indication that hearing me offer to help was the last thing on his mind.

“What..? Dude, h-huh..”

“Help, Alfred. Do you need some help?”

His do-goodish keen at the accidental brush of his dick against the bed gagged me. He was back to his dilly-dallying and I felt the weight of Arthur’s boring day routine at my fingertips. Is his what he dealt with? The hellish sort of dumbassery that was Alfred forgetting his question and rutting against the bed like some fucking toddler?

“Alfred, wait—”

I arose from my bed, the silk lightly damp from my incessant arousal from seeing my older brother fuck into the plush mattress, and lay my body quietly next to him.

“M-Mattie? Wait—!” I reached. Ghosted, really, over his less than average sized cock and lay my small fingers beneath the top of his plevis.

“Think of someone special, Alfred,” I needed to feel a bump; an indication of sorts that my brother was human, was as horny as any human could be, and felt the unrivalled need to release the tension, “think of Arthur’s hands brushing near your penis.”

Alfred was surprised. More surprised at the uncomfortable arousal that followed the promise of his incoming orgasm.

“Mattie, what—” He moaned. Loudly. Pathetically. Desperately needing to feel more of my hand that lightly kneaded the near tip of his cock.

“Think of his laugh. His smile, his face.” He was closer and further, the itch to spill, to come despite the rampant paranoia that lay within his chest.

“Come on, Alfred. Let him see you.”

Cum doused my fingers and Alfred gasped in a way that made me giggle. He was adorable; small and charming in a sense that he needed someone to take care of him.

And once day that person would be me.


	4. Divinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone know what’s going on? Because I sure as hell don’t.

**IV**

Alfred seemed to amass a skeptical amount of people to our doorway. They were all colourful in their own distinguished way and I found myself put off by it.

The first was Arthur. The lopsided victory boy who wore a straight face and displayed an even straighter personality. Admirable? Dedicated?

“Annoying.” Alfred would mumble.

We’ve both reached the ripe age of eighteen, legally old enough to give consent without the concern of outrage at the display of our seemingly pedophilic caretaker. Alfred would have smiled, would have jumped and giggled and harboured that picturesque American male display.

Yet he was content with an indescribable loyalty to the mere idea that was our father’s seemingly alluring nature.

“Al…” He was a fucking dunce. A shameless regulation of humanity’s failures with the human aesthetic, and I found it my duty to spark a sense of wit into his mind.

“Give him a chance, he’s only thirty.” Thirty was an overstatement. The guy was practically oozing the signs of disinfected old age. He was old, gross, a relish of the gross fruitcakes he loved and the even grosser scones he _made_.

“Lighten up, Mattie. I was only kidding.” To me, trying to create a plan to give their father a stroke didn’t seem light-hearted enough to joke about. It was more of a parting give. An example of why fatherhood valued much over a young boy’s life, and for me it seemed almost cute. A soft touch from his brother to say a half-assed goodbye to Arthur.

But here in the kitchen, knives held tight enough to make our hands bleed and a satchel of imaginary meth, I thought it erasable to commit an act of treason against — well — England.

“We should hurry. He’ll probably be home soon.”


End file.
